


Cabin Fever

by Kahvi



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 13:30:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9125761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kahvi/pseuds/Kahvi
Summary: Martin and Arthur are stranded together on Christmas, and Martin fears the worst. However, as he comes to realize, he's not entirely certain what the worst might be.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A Secret Santa gift to Adrablunacy!

Staring through the window at what would have been a view had snow not completely obscured it, the song ran through Martin’s head. He wished it wouldn’t, but there it was; _get dressed you merry gentlemen…_

An ominously corresponding humming sounded from the bedroom. Martin hadn’t been in there this morning; there didn’t seem much point. Why wake Arthur if there was nothing for either of them to do? Apparently he was awake now though, unless he was humming in his sleep, which, frankly, Martin would not put past him. He certainly talked in his sleep often enough, or at least he always did whenever they shared a room. 

Martin sighed, and turned his attention back to the window. It was barely past noon, but the light was already fading. Still, he could just make out that the snow now was nearly level with the lower window panes. No wonder they couldn’t get the door open. He checked his phone again - still just one bar, not enough to hold a coherent conversation, but he’d been able to reach Carolyn by text late last night. He’d sent off a few more to Douglas just in case, one of them at 3 AM this morning when he couldn't sleep. He read the last reply again, just to soothe his nerves: 

_Too dangerous on icy roads in the fog at night, we’ve had to stop overnight. Will reach you tomorrow afternoon at best guess. Sorry about Arthur._

Yes. Well, that was easy for him to say, wasn’t it? Douglas wasn’t the one stuck in a cabin in the Norwegian mountains on Christmas morning with a thirty year old man who owned no less than three advent calendars; one to keep at home, one on GERTI and one that he kept on his person at all times ‘just in case’. And, of course, it was hard to miss the implication that Martin himself would have no better place to be on Christmas. He knew that wasn’t intentional, but it still stung. Douglas had even met his family, for goodness sake! Oh god, was that _why_ he didn’t think Martin would want to spend time with them? Were they that awful? Of course, Martin thought they were, but he’d always assumed he was being paranoid, and that objectively-

“Morning,” said Arthur cheerfully, and Martin let out a breath. It fogged up the glass in front of him. 

“Morning, Arthur,” he said, not turning. He just couldn’t bear to see the disappointment on Arthur’s face. It was like kicking a drowning puppy. 

“Shall I make the coffees?” 

“You don’t have to make us coffee; we’re not at work.”

“That’s OK, I don’t mind. Also, I’d quite like some coffee.” 

“Oh. Right.” 

Martin frowned. He could hear Arthur humming to himself still as he headed towards the cabin’s tiny kitchen. No effusive cheering, no wails of disappointment, no thinly veiled hints about opening presents, nothing. Finally tearing himself away from the depressing landscape, Martin looked towards the kitchen. There was no door as such, only an open doorway through which Arthur’s back was barely visible. He was wearing his favorite red shirt and jeans, which he never wore at work, but that was less surprising than the fact that he was fully dressed in the first place. Even at hotels, Arthur never dressed before breakfast unless Carolyn forced him to, which she did, without fail. But Carolyn wasn’t here. Stupidly, Martin found himself glancing around the room in case he’d missed an imposing woman in a business suit hiding in an airing cupboard somewhere, then shook himself and went into the kitchen. 

It seemed a bit incongruous for a cabin like this to have one of those fancy coffee makers with the little pods, but then again, Martin hadn’t expected it to have an indoor bathroom with a shower or even electricity and running water. He probably shouldn’t be surprised; the sort of people who could afford to charter an aeroplane, even if the plane in question was GERTI, did not usually tend to skimp on creature comforts. It was a shame Professor Halvorsen had to rush to the hospital just after they arrived, though Martin supposed grandchildren weren’t always born on schedule. Or any children for that matter. And she was paying them handsomely for taking her luggage here, and she did say she would be back in good time before Christmas Eve. Which was last night. 

“You all right, Skip?”

“What? Oh, yes. Just, you know, thinking.” About why _you_ seem to be all right, he did not add. Arthur was holding out a cup, he realized. “Right! Thanks.”

“No problem. Happy Christmas.”

Martin wasn’t quite sure what his face was doing. Something appropriately festive, he hoped. It didn’t feel that way; it felt like all the muscles in his cheeks and jaw were spasming. “Happy,” he managed, ending the sentence in a mumble and a long sip of what turned out to be absolutely delicious coffee. 

“It’s stopped snowing.”

“Yes, that’s a relief at least.” 

“Skip, are you sure you’re all right? You look a bit funny.”

“Funny?” Martin fumbled his cup onto the bench behind him. “F...funny how?” 

“Well, you’re stuttering, for one. You only do that when you’re nervous.” 

“I… I… I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Why did he feel a sudden and urgent need to climb backwards onto the bench? 

Arthur smiled. It wasn’t one of his usual smiles, the sort that ran all over his face, not leaving room for any other features. This was a quiet sort of smile, the way one might imagine a cat might smile after a long afternoon snooze. Martin didn’t know what to do with it. “Let’s go outside,” the smile said.

“Outside? What are you talking about; we can’t go outside! The door’s jammed! And there’s snow everywhere!”

“Yep,” Arthur said, for once in his life sounding somewhat Australian. He sat down his cup with considerably more determination than Martin had, walked over to the kitchen window and started opening it. 

“What are you doing?!” Martin rushed over, trying to bat Arthur’s hands away, but the panes had already swung inwards, along with a light dusting of snow. Surprisingly, it wasn’t all that cold. 

“Don’t worry, I do this all the time.”

Martin considered this. “How?” 

Arthur was already climbing up on a stool, ignoring him entirely. He reached out and the ground - if that was an appropriate word for something which was half an inch below a ground floor window - for a moment or two before carefully swinging first one, then another foot out. 

Martin gave a little yelp, expecting him to fall through, but he didn’t; he sank through quite a bit, but down to around the middle of his shins. 

“Come on then!” 

“Sorry… _what?_ ” 

“Come on out!” Arthur stepped out further, with just a little bit of effort, and, incredibly, held out his hand. 

Well, if it was one thing Martin Crieff knew more than anything, it was defeat.

* * *

“I… how did you…” Martin stood in the snow… on the snow, looking out over the endless white. The sun was starting to set in earnest now, the sky shifting slowly like autumn leaves. Near the horizon, it had turned to soft magenta flames. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen it from this side of the clouds. 

“It was really high when we got here yesterday morning, and that was really packed, so it stands to reason.”

“What was?” 

“The snow.” Arthur looked worried. That it itself was enough to snap Martin back to reality. “Honestly Skip, what’s wrong? You’re acting all…” he shrugged, “more like yourself than usual.” 

Had anyone else said that, Martin might have taken offense. As it was, all he could do was blurt out the truth. “I don’t like being trapped somewhere. Anywhere. I’m not… overly fond of closed spaces.”

Arthur seemed to consider this. “A plane is sort of an enclosed space, when you think about it.”

“Yes, but I’m in control of the plane. I’m not…” he looked over at Arthur, who seemed to be looming in all this whiteness with his broad-shouldered red shirt and blue jeans and general sort of Arthur-ness. “Look, don’t tell anyone this, but I’m not very comfortable flying when I’m not flying.”

“I don’t get it.”

“When I’m not the pilot, I mean.” 

Arthur nodded, slowly. “Because you’re not in control. So you don’t know what’s going to happen.” 

“Right. Exactly.” 

“And you’re worried now because you don’t know what’s going to happen.”

Martin’s throat suddenly seemed to be trying to strangle him, which should not be physically possible. “I…” 

“Would it help if I told you what’s going to happen?” Arthur was just _standing there_ with his murky green eyes all calm and terrifying. “I’ll tell you anyway: We’re going to stay out here for a bit until you feel a little bit less trapped, and then, when you feel like it, we can go back inside and take a hot shower.” 

“Together?” Martin said before his brain caught up with his mouth, and oh god, he was sure he was going to faint. Why on Earth was he saying these things? What were they doing out here? What was going _on?_

“Of course not, I’ll be making us hot chocolate, and I can’t do that if I’m in the shower.” He hesitated. “Usually.” 

Martin’s phone buzzed in his pocket, but he couldn’t gather the strength to fish it out.

* * *

It _had_ gotten cold after a while, and as it turned out, snow has a tendency to melt. All of which meant that Martin was now wet and cold and huddling impatiently outside the bathroom while Arthur took what he’d misleadingly referred to as a ‘quick shower’. Martin had suggested that he go first, but Arthur had pointed out that if he did, Arthur would have to shower _after_ the hot chocolate was done, and then they couldn’t sit down and drink them together. Quite why Martin was indulging this madness rather than pointing out that avoiding getting a cold or possibly pneumonia was a tad more important than simultaneous cocoa-enjoyment remained a mystery. He wasn’t just out of sorts; there were no sorts to be had. He couldn’t scrape together a sort to save his life. 

Rubbing his legs to keep them from atrophying, Martin felt his phone and remembered the text. Pulling it out, he saw Carolyn’s name on the screen and groaned. She would never bother to communicate unless it was bad news or a change of plans, and sure enough:

_Rental car broke down. Waiting for mechanic. Am taking this out of your wages. C._

From the shower came Arthur’s muffled voice, humming again, and that was it. That was the absolute and proverbial it. Martin tore the bathroom door open with a roar which sounded embarrassingly more like a scream outside of his head, and emerged, gasping, into a searingly hot room - the floor was heated, he noticed dimly - containing a small glass enclosure and one stark naked Arthur Shappey. Before he could think, and more importantly, before Arthur could speak, Martin had the cabinet open and himself in it, and some small part of his mind interjected that this would make his clothes even wetter, but for all Martin cared, that particular part of his mind could go hang. 

Arthur was laughing - _laughing,_ mind you - and seemed perfectly happy to let Martin press him against the wall when he was at least twice Martin’s size in every conceivable way. Then he stopped laughing because they were kissing, and everything was warm and wet, and quite frankly… _brilliant_.

* * *

“You’re not really going to take anything out of his wages, are you?” 

Carolyn stopped poking at the fire and settled back into her chair with a contented ‘hrumpf’. “No,” she said, having arranged herself to her satisfaction. “For two very important reasons. Firstly, the car has not actually broken down, and secondly…”

“Indeed,” Douglas interrupted, point well taken.”

“In fact, and don’t you dare tell him this, I’m actually saving money on this little escapade. Between not having to pay for hotel rooms for him and Arthur-”

“Something tells me there will be future saving on that front, too,” Douglas smirked. 

“... _and_ Professor Halvorsen paying extra both for having us haul her bags up there and then cancelling, this is turning out to be one of MJN’s rare profit-making ventures. We’re thoroughly in the green.”

“Merry Christmas!” Douglas gave a toast of whatever was in his glass. Carolyn suspected it was tea; for a recovering alcoholic, Douglas was surprisingly eager to give the impression he was still drinking. 

“Isn’t it just. The most relaxing one I’ve had for…” she exhaled delightedly, “about thirty odd years.”

“An unexpected side-benefit?”

She snorted. “Don’t get too comfortable. All evidence to the contrary, Arthur is my son, and I very much intend to spend Christmas with him. We’ll take the car up in just a few more hours. That should get us back in time for dinner.”

Douglas looked contemplative, which was never a good sign. And sure enough: “Do you really think they’ll…”

“Oh, don’t let’s talk about it. You and I both know what would have happened sooner or later if we left them to their own devices, and I’d much rather have the inevitable occur in a controlled environment. If you ask me,” she added thoughtfully, “they both need to let off some steam.” 

“In my experience,” Douglas purred - and yes, that was the word, how utterly revolting. How she wished she did not like the weaselly man so much, “the sort of thing they’re getting up to tends to cause steam, not-”

“Really, do shut up. Or you’re paying for dinner.”

“Shutting up, sir.” 

Douglas smiled. Carolyn, despite herself, joined him. After a moment, their glasses clinked.


End file.
